Read Chapter 28: The Syndicate Contract

The hotel lobby smelled of stale cigars and lemon polish. Jack kept his hand pressed against his side, feeling the bandage shift beneath his wool coat as he crossed to the elevator. The Chicago man had chosen the place—a mid-tier establishment near the rail depot, busy enough to hide a meeting, respectable enough not to draw law.

Foley waited by the stairwell door, hat pulled low. When Jack passed, Foley fell in behind him without a word. Fourteenth floor. Room 1408.

Jack knocked twice, paused, knocked once more.

The door opened on a man who looked like he'd been carved from the same granite as the Chicago courthouse. Fifty years old, maybe more, with a face that had seen every kind of trouble and decided none of it was worth blinking at. He wore a striped suit that cost more than Jack's crew made in a month. His name was Elias Voss, and he was Al Capone's accountant. The man who counted the money, which meant he was the man who decided who got to make it.

"You're late," Voss said.

"Got shot last week," Jack said. "Traffic."

Voss's mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile he'd offer all evening. He stepped back and let them in.

The room was sparse. A bed with the spread pulled tight, a writing desk with a single chair, two glasses and a bottle of bourbon sitting on the side table. Not illegal in Chicago's territory, but here it was worth a stretch in federal prison. Voss poured two fingers into each glass without asking.

"Sit," Voss said, gesturing to the bed. "Your man stays by the door."

Jack sat. The mattress gave too much, and the motion pulled at his stitches. He kept his face still.

Voss handed him a glass and took the chair. "Capone's got questions."

"Ask them."

"Why should we help you kill your brother?"

Jack didn't flinch. Straight to the throat, and the Chicago man watched his eyes when he said it. They'd done their homework. Of course they had.

"He's going to take over the deep-water dock," Jack said. "He's got a partner—Silvertone—who's been buying up the waterfront quietly. They've already got machine guns. They're not building a business. They're building a wall."

"And you're building what?"

"A hole in that wall. If you want product moving up the coast, you need that dock. My brother's got it. I want it back."

Voss sipped his bourbon. "The North Side boys said much the same about each other. We didn't pick sides. We waited until one of them was dead and shook hands with the survivor."

"Then you waited longer than you needed to."

That got a raised eyebrow. Voss set the glass down and folded his hands over his knee. "You're asking us to put guns on your fight. That's a commitment. We don't do commitments for men who might not be breathing next month."

Jack reached into his coat, slow, and pulled out a folded map. He spread it on the bed between them. Marked in pencil were the rail spur, the customs house, the approach roads to Frank's operation, and the warehouses he controlled.

"That's his territory, as of this morning," Jack said. "Every location, every route. I've got men inside his operation still. They feed me what I need. When we move, I move on his schedule, not mine. If Chicago wants a piece of what comes after, you get first pick of the warehousing and a flat rate on every case that moves through my dock for two years."

Voss studied the map. He didn't touch it. "And what comes after?"

"One syndicate. One name. Yours, if you want it. Mine, if you don't."

The room went quiet. Foley shifted by the door, hand resting on his coat pocket. Voss looked at Jack for a long moment, then picked up his glass and drank.

"I'll wire Chicago tonight," Voss said. "You'll have your answer in three days. But the guns move now, on my word. You'll get a telegraph address. Use it once, and only once, or the deal's dead."

Jack nodded. Three days. He could keep his operation quiet for three days. Frank had moved to the offensive, but he'd spent his surprise. Now it was a waiting game, and Jack had just bought himself the biggest stick on the coast.

"There's one more thing," Voss said. He set down his glass and reached into his jacket. Jack tensed, but Voss only pulled out a telegraph envelope, creased and travel-stained. "This came for you care of the railroad office in Albany. One of our men picked it up when he saw your name on the wire. Figured you'd want it before the federal boys started reading your mail."

Jack took the envelope. The return address was a military post office in France. Patrick.

He didn't open it in front of Voss. He tucked it into his coat pocket and stood. "The deal's good, then?"

"The deal's in motion," Voss said. "Don't make me regret it."

Jack and Foley left the hotel without exchanging words. The street outside was dark, the lamps few and far between. Foley hailed a cab, and they rode in silence toward the safehouse in the garment district. Only when the door was locked and the curtains drawn did Jack pull out the envelope.

His hands were steady. That surprised him.

He unfolded the letter.

*Jack—*

*Your wire reached me this morning. I don't know what to make of it. You say you have things to tell me. I've spent three years over here thinking about home, about you, about leaving the way I did. I've got my own things to tell you.*

*I've booked passage on the Mauritania. I'll dock in New York in nine days. Whatever you've got to say, I'd rather hear it to your face.*

*Don't meet me at the pier. There's a place on Carmine Street—the old coffeehouse near the church. Do you remember it? We used to go there with Ma when she was alive.*

*I'll be there at noon.*

*Come alone.*

*—Patrick*

Jack read the letter twice, then a third time. The words didn't change. Patrick was coming home. Nine days. He'd be here before Chicago even finished deciding whether Jack was worth the investment.

He thought about the letters he'd sent over the years—the ones written in Patrick's name, the ones claiming he'd died in a drunken fight with a dock boss, the ones that made Frank's story airtight. Three years of lies, all of them feeding on one another, building a wall between Jack and the truth that he'd built himself.

And now Patrick wanted to meet in the old coffeehouse. Come alone.

Jack folded the letter and put it back in his coat.

Foley was watching him from the kitchen doorway. "Your brother?"

"Yeah."

"He coming home?"

"Yeah."

Foley didn't ask anything else. He'd known Patrick, before. He knew what it meant.

Jack moved to the window and looked out at the city, at the lights strung along the waterfront where Frank's men were probably moving tonight, counting guns, waiting for word of where Jack was hiding. And somewhere on the Atlantic, a steamship was cutting through the dark, carrying the only brother Jack had ever actually loved toward a truth that would destroy them both.

He pressed a hand to his ribs. The bandage was wet again. Good.

He'd need the pain to keep him sharp.